Frozen
by SilverArtemisKO
Summary: "But everything is messy, chaotic, loud, difficult and tonight, tonight when the clock says three and there is no sound except a distant honking of a car and there's moonlight on my couch and the curtain is doing its own slow wavy dance, I am completely, utterly exhausted, reaching into myself and finding zero energy to push through..." Dr. Reid character study. TW: Suicide


**A/N: This is set after the s14 finale. (Written before I watched s15 premiere) And it's gonna be depressing. I mean seriously depressing. Keep cookies and cat videos handy. I warned ya. **  
**Also, if you're reading this, take love. **

* * *

People leave me things.

A letter. A book. A badge.

In my satchel that is so unfashionable, I put them in, one by one, over time. I carried them around with me. For years.

And the things I couldn't hold, I stored them in that special little corner of my mind. The way my dad said he's proud of me. The way my mom read me poetry. The way someone I saved told me they were naming their baby after me.

I kept things. I kept moments.

But I couldn't keep the people. They leave me things, and then they disappear. Gideon left. Alex left. Maeve I couldn't save.

And my dad and I don't talk and my mom is losing the memory of me and the woman who named her baby Spencer, I never ever heard from her again so let me ask, what's the point?

I used to think the things mean something. The memories too. Memories. Promises.

A sudden declaration of love.

But the truth is none of it means anything when the people aren't here. When they vanish like they were never here. When they change so much it breaks your heart.

Or when they want to stay the exact same so much it breaks your heart too.

I walk into my apartment after midnight. Everything is dark here. The light switches are four-five steps away.

And I realize it is possible to be too tired to turn on the lights.

This exhaustion, it's not in my body, no. It's in my head. Frayed mind. Thousands of thoughts screaming together so loud it's like ultrasonic sound- you don't hear it but it makes you sick all over. The impossible weight of... just being.

I walk to my couch and flop onto it. A sliver of moonlight shines silver on my coat.

Right. I'm wearing a tux.

I take off the coat. The tie. Shoes. Belt. Slowly, in the dark.

I feel... blank. An oppressive blank, but blank still. I try to think about one thing, catch on one thread. Me. My mom. JJ. The BAU. I try to sort my feelings, thoughts, label them. But I give up as soon as I touch on one thought or the other- it takes so much effort to think. It's easier, much easier to just sit thinking, feeling, doing nothing.

Except my mind wouldn't shut up. So now I'm caught in this weird limbo where I can't make sense of things but I can't stand the meaningless but deafening noise in my head either so I just want to... stop. Stop everything, stop myself. Quit. Leave. Go. Anywhere but here. Anything but this. And _this_ is everything.

These thoughts, this wish used to surprise me at first. I'd be doing something, working, talking, walking and I'd catch myself thinking, 'Why am I here? Why am I doing this? I'd much rather just not.' 'What would you like to do, then?' I'd ask myself. 'What do you want?' The answer is always nothing. I want to do nothing. Be nothing. Everything is too much work, too much effort. I'm exhausted. I want to go. Let me go.

And then I'd feel guilty. 'Do you have it so bad?', I'd ask myself. 'You have such good friends. You do such meaningful work. You lost a lot, but you came out so much stronger. What seems to be the problem?'

As if logic could ever dictate what you feel.

I feel nothing. I want nothing. All the logic in the world cannot fix that.

I know medically speaking, I probably have depression. I haven't seen anyone for this, but I'm smart enough to know. I check a lot of boxes.

But then, I have so many things. Random headaches that are supposed to be psychosomatic. Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome, courtesy of Millburn Correctional Facility. Some form of social anxiety. A faint craving for Dilaudid humming in the background, if I reach for it. Maybe some early signs of dementia. Maybe some sort of schizophrenic break happening somewhere, even. Who the heck knows.

I'm tired of the labels. I'm tired of everything. I'm messed up, beyond messed up. That's that.

I stand up. Turn on some lights. Drink a little water. Walk a few paces. Look at the clock. It's 1:50 a.m.

_I want to die._

The thought slithers in quietly, innocently, in disguise with the other regular thoughts.

It makes me freeze up. In the middle of my apartment, I stand still like a statue.

This has happened before. The thought of death sneaking up on me, taking me by surprise.

I don't want it. Surely.

Yes, I've been thinking about 'quitting' all the time. It doesn't have a specified meaning. I'm not thinking about leaving my job. I'm not thinking about moving away. It's more like a yearning than a thought, really. It never was real. It was a fantasy where you get to escape being you. Or just being.

It doesn't mean I've been planning on…

Killing myself.

Even the thought, the crystal-clear shape of it sends a shiver all over my skin.

I haven't really been thinking about suicide all this time. I haven't.

But like an animal of the dark, the thought keeps rearing its ugly head from the deepest pits of my brain, taunting me.

I don't want to do it. I'm not going to do it. Life is hard. Always, for most people. You take it on. You don't just get to turn around and exit. That is beyond selfish, beyond cowardly. I know that. I understand that.

The thought of death, it's so sudden. Unwelcome.

So unbelievably enticing.

'And', a voice whispers in the back of my mind, 'Haven't you always wanted it, just a little?'

The hardest thing about my job isn't not to profile my colleagues, my friends, my family. It is not to profile myself. When I do, I find ugly things.

Time and again, I walked into the path of death.

Years ago, JJ and I. Behind a barn. I told her to go one way, I rushed off to another. With Tobias Hankel, the UnSub, on the loose and my gun skills so deplorable. How could I have been so stupid? He overpowered me, of course he did. How had I not seen that he would?

Morgan, Hotch and I. In a mansion. A disfigured man inside, the Fisher King. I didn't know what he could do to me. But I walked into the room alone to talk to him. And turned out he was wearing a bomb. Which he then used to blow up half the house. Why did I have to go in? Where did that confidence come from? Confidence or recklessness?

When a crazy professor who was killing and dismembering people took a hostage, I figured out where he went and rushed off alone, again. Without notifying anybody. I even took off my bulletproof vest. Why would I do that?

I strode into a house that I knew was a breeding ground for anthrax. Without any plan, any protection.

I've refused to shoot a teenage guy because he was bullied and I identified with him. I stood before his loaded gun unarmed. I took a bullet for my colleague. I tried to save a man I didn't know in prison and almost paid for it with my life.

On paper, all this sounds brave. Selfless, noble acts.

Psychologically? I might have done them because of a deep-rooted feeling of self-loathing. I was neglected as a child often- my dad wasn't there, my mom didn't even remember me during her psychotic breaks. I was physically and emotionally abused by my classmates. Things turned out all right for me, that doesn't negate the effects those incidents must have had. You grow up, you make your peace with things, you go about your life, but you never realize that you internalized what happened to you and they are a part of the very fabric of who you are.

Deep-rooted self-loathing leads to acts of self-sacrifice, because you feel you're never good enough. You want to be good enough for something, anything. A cause. Catching killers, saving lives- that's what I chose. I could be anything. I could work from the safety of a room all my life and still be someone, because I was fortunate enough to born with the kind of intellect with which that is possible. Yet I chose this job, I put myself in danger again and again. And it felt right.

Maybe I was always waiting for that one day. The day when luck wouldn't be on my side. When I'd gamble an UnSub wouldn't kill me but they would. When everyone would hope the bullet in my body didn't pierce any vital organ, but it would've. The day when I would finally get what I'd always wanted.

To give up trying to be good enough. To give up and rest. To not exist anymore.

The Ben's Believers cult, they almost got there. They almost killed me. And how did I feel about that?

Peace. I felt peace. I was ready. I was so ready.

No. No. Stop.

I try hard not to use my intellect on myself. Not to analyze myself, profile myself. Because a few unguarded moments and look where we are.

I change into sleeping clothes. Brush my teeth. Stand beside my bed like a fool because it seems ridiculous to try to sleep when that's the last thing on my mind.

I should be exhausted. Chasing after a killer. Getting taken hostage. Saving the day. Attending Rossi's wedding.

Getting told 'I love you' and afterwards, 'Ha, maybe not really' by your closest, dearest friend.

All in a day's work.

Exhausted? Yes, I am. Agitated? Also yes. My body, my mind don't want to settle down.

So I end up aimlessly walking around my small apartment again.

'It's going to be okay.', I told Jennifer.

Of course I did. When have I ever not jumped in to make sure that I am not a bother, that everyone else is comfortable even if at the expense of myself?

If JJ wants this gone, if JJ wants things to be like she never said what she said, then I can do that. I can pretend nothing ever happened. I'll be good at it, I'm sure.

But did she mean it?

Do I want her to mean it?

Am I mad? Sad? Relieved? Disappointed?

Finally alone, in quite, giving myself some time and space to think, I can see things a little clearer.

If JJ said she meant it, I'd believe her. It surprises me how easily I am willing to believe this, but I'm certain. I wouldn't wonder how, when, why this happened. I'd believe her. Because I know we have something. A bond, a history, half a lifetime going through hell and back together. I know when it comes to saving each other, we wouldn't blink before running to the end of the world, to dive or fly anywhere. We have this. It's strong. Can it be stronger than a social contract, some vows uttered before a godman, a promise to love someone else forever? Yes, why not? Promises shouldn't be broken, but they are. All the time. You can't dictate your feelings with logic, who knows that better than me?

If JJ said she didn't mean it, I'd believe her. I know she still loves me. It would only mean she doesn't want me, want me in that special way only someone who is in love with you can. Which makes perfect sense. That's how friendships work after all.

And what about me? What do I feel?

Surprise, surprise. I feel I could take the leap.

It's not that big of a leap for me. I open myself to very, very few people. Most of them then leave. She's one who's still around. She knows my demons. She's kind and lovely. And truth be told, I have some unresolved feelings for her, from way back. These are the kinds of feelings that you can put in a box, close the lid and go about your life, but if you decide to pull that box out and open it, you'd find them still there, waiting. What would be the big difference between loving her now and loving her if she was mine? Physical pleasures, when have I ever cared too much about that when a connection of the minds is so much more superior? The only difference would be we'd maybe get promoted to each other topmost priority from positions two three or four which is nice; and we'd spend more time together, which is also nice.

I start laughing. Loudly. I may wake a neighbor or two, but I don't care.

Look at me reasoning my head off! As if things were just that simple. As if she is a woman with no other connections, and I am a man with no other considerations. As if there's no Will, Henry, Michael. As if I'm not a family friend, the kids' godfather.

Freaking hysterical. 'What would be the big difference?' Oh my god!

I can't stop laughing.

It takes a few minutes for me to sober up. But in the end I do, and it's a little surprising but I feel a little pity for myself.

Because I could love so much, so hard.

The empty days when I have nothing to go and no one to go to, years of fighting my own monsters alone in my home after the case of the day is done, the silence in the quite hours of the night. Waking from a nightmare and calming myself down because who else is there?

I could love like a madman, I could drink up their love like a madman. I would never tire.

If only there was someone.

But in the end, there isn't.

That's the bottom line. Jennifer may love me and Jennifer may not love me, but truth is, it doesn't matter because things will remain the exact same. She isn't leaving her family for anyone. I don't for a second want her to leave her family for anyone, least of all me. It should never happen and it's not going to either. We will go back to our old ways. She'll deal with it in her own way, I'll deal with it in mine.

Because promises and declarations only remain. The people, they don't.

My satchel is hanging off a corner shelf. I go and get it.

Stand with it before my writing desk.

And upend it.

The contents spill out. A lot of things. Pens, notebooks. A chocolate wrapper. An extra watch.

A small chess set.

I got it from Gideon's cabin. After he… after the UnSub got him. I used to carry around his letter to me too, the one where he explained he had to go because things stopped making sense.

A coin glints on the table. A sobriety coin. From when I was trying to stop taking Dilaudid. Agent John gave it to me. I never did give it back.

The Narrative of John Smith is among the things. Maeve's present to me. Because she thought I was her John Smith, and I thought that too, except when it came to saving her I couldn't do it.

Alex's badge, which was her goodbye, was in my bag for a few days that year. I had to return it to Hotch, but I held on to it for some days before that, just to keep it with me.

All these things, I've carried them around with me, thinking them meaningful, thinking they gave me strength. Things, memories. But maybe they've just been weighting me down. Putting a burden on my back to be good enough not only for the people who are here, but also the people who aren't.

And it's not all good things. There are some photocopied pages lying among all the stuff, folded together once, untouched for many days. But I once opened them regularly. Looked at them. Seven sheets of file photos and information, for seven UnSubs I've killed.

Eight now, I realize, including Casey Allen Pinker last night.

Eight people. Eight lives I've taken. Human lives. I have blood on my hands, have had for years. Does that not have its own weight too?

A little card introducing Derek's son also came out of the satchel. Hank Spencer Morgan. Derek said his son needed a big brother. How often have I checked in again?

I remember I wanted to save a man with Dissociative Identity Disorder, Adam Jackson. I was so passionate. But then I gave up. Amanda, his alternate identity had taken over. What could I do? I haven't checked on him in years either.

How's aunt Ethel doing nowadays?

How is Kate's little daughter?

I was thinking people disappear from my life. Maybe I disappear from people's lives too.

Because I'm so tired of it all.

So tired. So, so tired.

What's it like to be selfish? Completely selfish, not sneaking around not maintaining the connections you're supposed to maintain and then feeing guilty about it like this, no. Totally selfish. Leaving business unfinished. Disregarding people's emotions. Running away when they need you.

And just… not be anywhere anymore.

Die.

It's back again. The thought. Looking ten times more alluring.

Just a taste of peace. I'd give everything for it. But everything is messy, chaotic, loud, difficult and tonight, tonight when the clock says three and there is no sound except a distant honking of a car and there's moonlight on my couch and the curtain is doing its own slow wavy dance, I am completely, utterly exhausted, reaching into myself and finding zero energy to push through this messy, chaotic, loud, difficult life.

It's not any one thing. It's all of it.

I realize I my feet have carried me to the space in front of the apartment door.

Like in a trance, I open it. The hallway is dimly lit, the corners are shadowy. The staircase goes up and disappear into darkness.

I start climbing.

When I reach the roof after five flights of stairs, I'm panting a little. I stop at the door for a second to catch my breath. I live in an old building. The roof is plain concrete with two long-forgotten and dead potted plants in one corner and not much else.

The parapet is so low.

I walk towards the front edge, standing against it. A half-moon shines cold and detached in the sky, washing everything in sliver. I'm wearing thick flannel but it's not that thick and it's so cold and the icy chill from the concrete rooftop seeps in through my socks, freezing my feet.

I look down. A six-story drop.

That kills a person.

How easy. How fragile. Another step. Push my body forward at an angle. Let go. I do the math in a second. Almost within a blink I'd hit the ground and everything will be gone.

Worries about my sick mom? Gone.

Thoughts of my long-absent dad? Gone.

Whether I can do my job well? Doesn't matter.

Whether I'm going crazy? Doesn't matter.

Who loves me? Irrelevant.

Whom do I love? Irrelevant.

No duties. No responsibilities. Just peace.

How liberating it is to be selfish like that. Truly selfish.

Could I ever be that way?

Does it not stop mattering too, the selfishness, with everything else?

Because when you're dead, you're dead. It's over for you. What difference does it make what other people think then? They'll deal with it. Everything will fall into place eventually. The world stops for no one.

The people I love, I can do anything for them. I _have _done anything for them. Bruised and battered myself but still smiled through it all because I've always wanted them to be happy.

Don't I get to be selfish once?

Just this once?

For one time in my life, can't I choose myself?

Can't I choose peace?

Could it really be this easy?

The whisper in my mind is a siren song. Sweet, poisonous. Getting louder.

**Do it. **

I can hear the beating of my heart. Also loud. As if trying to drown out the whisper. Reminding me I'm alive. That as bad as things are, I can still walk this earth and it _is _something, isn't it? I'm alive.

**Don't do it. **

One step. One tilt. The easiest thing in the world. The most difficult thing in the world.

Peace. I want it. I want it.

But can I choose it? Right here, right now?

Do I get to?

Or do I stand here, in the soft yellow-white light, until the cold winter chills me through my bones, until it makes me into a statue, frozen forever in this moment, wanting something so simple yet so hard to reach for?


End file.
